The Language of Flowers
by NoCleverSig
Summary: She sat in John's lap breathing in the cool, night air. The beds of roses surrounding them. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His presence, his body, his gift said it all...


**The Language of Flowers  
><strong>Copyright 2011, NoCleverSig

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_This story is for LadyDeadlock in honor of her not 160__th__ birthday who requested, "Helen and John in a garden on the eve of her 160__th__ birthday having sex." Hope this fills the bill! Please note, this story is set in Season 3 sometime after Pax Romana and before Into the Black. Not having seen Into the Black yet, I may be reaching here_. _Thanks as always to MajorSam for being the bestest, fastest beta!_

11:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes before midnight. A quarter of an hour until she had lived twice the lifetime of most people if they were lucky.

Helen Magnus breathed in the cool, night air and sighed. She didn't feel fortunate. She felt melancholy, a sentiment that angered her given what she knew of the fragility of life.

People died daily, yet here she sat in the midst of her garden disheartened because she was alive. Almost 160 years of life at that. She shook her head and snorted. Someone should slap her for her impudence.

No, she paused, she wasn't upset because she was alive. She was upset because she had so little to show for it.

Ironic, really. The people who knew her would argue the opposite, that she had contributed so much to science, touting her work with abnormals, her advancement of biology and evolutionary theory, her creation of the Sanctuary Network. All of that was more than a lifetime's worth of achievements. But when it came down to it, she was alone. She had no one to love her, no child to carry on her name. Call her old fashioned, but these things had a place in life, and she missed them dearly.

One hundred and sixty years…of nothing.

She sighed, content to let the self pity wash over her as it did every year. If this birthday was a little worse given the milestone she'd reached, so be it. By morning her gloomy mood would have run its course, and she would cheerfully act surprised at the party her staff had undoubtedly planned for her.

A cool breeze eased through the garden making the plants quiver and carrying with it the scent of the flowers surrounding her. Helen pulled tight the crocheted shawl she wore over her lilac-colored nightgown. The curved, concrete bench had absorbed the night's chill, sending goose bumps up her spine. Still, she didn't move. She sat, observing the small homage she had created to her birthplace so far away, so long ago.

Beds of bright red, yellow, pink, and white roses surrounded her. They were encircled, in turn, by a large, evergreen hedgerow that gave this place a solitude that Magnus treasured. Of all the gardens in her Sanctuary, this was her favorite, and one that she had personally designed and labored in. She had dug her hands deep in the rich, dark soil and lovingly transplanted the bushes she'd shipped specifically from London. They thrived here in this cool, damp place with its warm, summer sun; both she and the roses. Maybe that's why she'd made this place her home. She couldn't stay in London. It held too many memories. But she could recreate it here, a part of it anyway, a part that made her smile rather than leaving her with a pain in her gut that never eased.

Lost in thought, she felt rather than heard the vibration in the air. The change of pressure. The atmospheric discharge. She turned to look, but he was already standing beside her.

"Rather late to be admiring one's garden."

Helen shot up. "John! Are you all right? Where in God's name have you been? What the hell happened to Adam?" The questions streamed out of her.

Druitt walked forward, palms raised to quiet her.

"I'm fine. Adam is…no longer an issue," he replied hesitantly.

"No longer…? What do you mean by…"

"Precisely what I said," he interrupted her, his voice clipped and powerful, catching Magnus off guard. "Please, Helen. Trust me," he offered gently.

Magnus paused, searching his face. "All right," she acquiesced. "For now."

John inclined his head. For now indeed. He'd have to address the issue of Worth soon, but not tonight. Tonight he was here for another reason, and it had nothing to do with the maniac Hyde.

"May I join you?" he asked, motioning to the bench.

Helen nodded and sat back down.

They sat side by side in silence for a time. John was dressed in rugged black boots, faded jeans, and a thick, leather coat. He smelled of musk and citrus, as he had when they'd first met, as he always did. She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the scent of the flowers and the feel of the cold, concrete bench beneath her rather than the smell of his skin or the warmth of his body by her side.

"Regent's Park," he finally said when he spoke again.

She looked up. "What?"

"Your garden, the bench. It's fashioned after the northwest corner of Regent's Park, isn't it?" he asked. "We were there often enough. I had the grass stains on my trousers to prove it," he grinned.

"John," she chided him.

"You did too, on your dress, if I'm not mistaken," he added with a smirk that made Helen shake her head and smile.

"Are you blushing?" he asked, dipping his head down to get a better look at her.

"Certainly not," she protested. "I'm not ashamed of the things we did. Well… most of the things we did."

Druitt laughed.

They fell back into an easy silence.

"Remember when we were young, Helen," he said after a time. "Flowers held much more meaning than they do now. So much was communicated through them…the color, the quantity, the presentation. It's not the same these days, is it?"

She paused, considering his comment. "I don't know. I imagine it depends upon the giver. I think some people still appreciate their significance, particularly roses. Maybe not as much as in our day, true, but still…" she trailed off.

When he realized she had no more to say, he continued. "I miss the romanticism of it. Expressing what one feels without uttering a word."

Helen looked up at him. He gazed serenely over the flower beds, his hands held loose in his lap, his expression unreadable. _He would miss it,_ she thought. The old John. The John she knew before the Ripper would appreciate, no, revel in the romanticism of it all. The thought suddenly saddened her, and she shivered.

He felt her movement and turned to look at her. She was clad in nothing but a short, satin night gown and a shawl, which she'd wrapped tightly around her body. Her hair hung loose and uncombed over her shoulders, and she wore no makeup. He could tell her mind was lost in memories. The melancholy of her mood wafted off of her as strongly as the scent of the roses.

Even sad and disheveled, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.

"You must be freezing. Here…" He started to remove his jacket, partly out of chivalry partly because it would allow him to touch her, but she shook her head, declining. Druitt tilted his in turn. "Helen," he protested. She sighed and barely nodded, a rare retreat on her part. He took his jacket off and draped it over her shoulders, his long fingers lingering on her soft, ivory skin.

"Better?" he asked.

She smiled slightly. "Yes. Thank you."

The chime of a clock from inside crackled through the midnight air. Helen turned away, looking back over her flowers. The white ones needed pruning she thought absently.

When the last chime sounded, she closed her eyes.

_Another year. Dear God…_

A sudden blanket of warmth over her skin brought her back to the present. Helen glanced down to see John's hand covering hers. His shirt was white. In his other hand he offered a single, red rose.

"Happy birthday, Helen."

She looked from the flower to him and back again, reaching out to take it. Automatically she lifted it to her nose, closed her eyes, and breathed in. Its scent was sweet and heady. She smiled.

"A rose from my own garden?"

He grinned and nodded.

"You always were a spend thrift, John Druitt," she teased.

He laughed. "I prefer to take my pleasures in…simpler things. Besides, as we were just discussing, it's not the gift but its meaning that matters, is it not?"

She looked back up at him. A seemingly inconsequential conversation regarding the language of flowers now made perfect sense. She should have known. John Druitt never did or said anything without purpose.

She twirled the long stem between her fingers, the flower's meaning as clear today as it was a century ago.

_I love you._

It was the second time he'd said it in the space of a year. The first had been outside the biolab. His words then had been simple and bold. At the time, she'd had no answer. Now, he spoke them silently, letting the symbolism of his gift speak for him instead.

"John…," she looked back down at the bright, red flower, her heart battling with her mind to frame a response.

"You don't have to answer," he offered quietly.

So little time together, so many years apart, yet he knew her heart like no other. Isn't that what she yearned for, what she missed in life? Someone who knew her so well she didn't need to speak?

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. Only then did she realize he was still holding it. She turned her palm up and embraced it tightly in return, interlacing her fingers with his. This hand that had killed so many had also caressed her cheek, wiped her tears, and held her chin to kiss her with a passion so deep she ached from the memory. She closed her eyes again, fighting back the tears that had been threatening all night when she felt his lips brush hers, and she opened them.

He was inches from her face. His eyes were so blue, so pure. How was it possible that behind them existed such evil it made her stomach churn?

"I don't want to love you," she whispered.

"I know," he replied, bending down to touch her lips again. Her right hand released the flower, dropping it to the bench. Her left clutched his hand tighter as her body responded of its own accord, pressing her mouth against his.

This…THIS… was what she wanted, what she needed to survive, regardless of the pain, frustration, and insanity it brought. This, whatever this was between them, was the only thing that had ever made her feel alive.

Helen let go of John's hand, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down to her, deepening their kiss. His leather coat slid off her shoulders onto the cool, damp grass behind her, exposing her skin to the frigid air. She didn't care. Nothing mattered in this moment, in this place, except that she was Helen and he was John and words between them had always been redundant.

John wrapped his arms around her, running his hands up and down the soft, thin fabric of her nightgown, pushing his tongue into her open mouth, tasting the sweetness of her cheeks, her lips, her tongue. She answered him in kind, relearning every corner of his mouth, his lips, consigning every sensation to memory so that when this moment ended she could find it again in her mind.

The kiss they shared seemed endless. If she broke away, he found her. If he slipped, she caught him. They breathed each other's breath, melted into each other's body. Of all the drugs Helen knew of and had tried nothing matched this brilliant rush. Her body tingled, burning with heat and sweat despite the cold. Her hands roamed his shoulders, his back, his chest, feeling the tightness of his muscles, the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. His hands did likewise, moving up her arms to her shoulders, down her back, then forward to her breasts, squeezing them through the silky satin, causing Helen to moan in pleasure at his hauntingly familiar touch.

When John's lips finally withdrew from hers, she gasped out loud. Quickly he kissed her neck, the warm wetness of his mouth sending goosebumps down her side. He slid the thin straps of her nightgown off her shoulders as he rained tender kisses up and down her skin, her hands kneading his back, pressing him closer.

He pulled the lilac satin down over her breasts slowly and dropped his head to kiss them, first one, then the other, taking her nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, gently biting it, then sucking her so hard her whole body arched against him. She pressed his head against her, like a babe to his mother's breasts, and he growled in pleasure, a sound that sent her muscles quivering below. He moved his lips to her mounds and sucked her over and over covering her breasts with his marks. Suddenly he dropped down to the grass, pulling her to face him and moved to her stomach, letting the thin cloth pool at her waist. He kissed her there, dipping his tongue into the curve of her belly button. Helen closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around John's shoulders, her breathing coming in short gasps as he drifted lower. His hands grasped her thighs, locking his fingers around them.

He slid his hands down her smooth, white legs massaging her muscles, caressing her calves as he traveled. When he reached her feet, he removed her sandals, slipping them off one at a time and kissing the top of each foot. When he finished, he reached for the hem of his white, cotton tunic and lifted it over his head, catching her eyes as he did so. She watched him, transfixed, his broad shoulders and taut chest rippling in the dim garden light. Her heart pounded. Her breath ragged as his hands and mouth returned to her body, slowly journeying back up her long legs to her center.

When he reached it, he gently tugged her forward, and she obliged. He moved his hands to her thighs again and slipped his fingers between the satin and skin, gently lifting her gown. Beads of sweat glistened off his forehead as he took in the sight of her, his own chest heaving, his blue eyes black with arousal. He set his heavy hands on her, holding her tight with his long fingers, and eased her legs apart. She closed her eyes as he moved toward her, his hot breath blowing against her skin. Her hands traveled the familiar path of his shoulders, his neck, kneading the muscles there, retracing the pattern of his body as he leaned in, dropping feather light kisses to her thighs, one then the other.

Her heart pounded as he moved closer. He hesitated for a moment, taking in the scent of her, and then dipped his head forward, his mouth warm and soft against her wetness. She gasped out loud as his tongue entered her then moved back out to tease her, his hands clutching her thighs so tightly she knew it would leave bruises. She didn't care. She wanted it, needed it, welcomed it. In the light of morning the marks would remind her that this night had been real.

He sucked her, teased her, worked her with his mouth and tongue. Helen wrapped her hands around John's head, pressing him against her, urging him on, her hips moving in response to his lovemaking. He lifted his right hand and slid it under her thigh, pulling her left leg up and over his shoulder, deepening the kiss. She held on to his neck, her eyes shut tight, her body trembling with the pleasure building inside her.

Suddenly he took her between his teeth, scraping against her ever so slightly. Helen sucked in a breath, instinctively pushing against his lips, her hips bucking in response to his skill. All she could think of was the feel of his mouth kissing her, his tongue dipping inside her, his teeth nipping her. He repeated the gesture, lightly pulling her clit with his lips then letting his teeth glide over her. It was all it took to send her soaring over the edge, her entire body shuddering around her center, the floral scent filling her head as she struggled for air.

John didn't wait for her to recover. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down to his lap, his mouth desperate for hers. She could taste herself on his lips as his teeth scraped against her cheek, cutting her. His mouth didn't leave hers as his hands worked wildly to unbutton his pants. When he finally succeeded, he tore away only for a moment to lift up his hips, pull down his jeans, and yank her back to his lap, crushing his mouth against hers.

Helen reached for him and almost cried out at the feel of his warm, velvet skin in her hand. He was everything she remembered and more. All she could think was that she wanted him, needed him, knew of no one else who could drive away the sadness that perpetually plagued her soul.

Once again they needed no words. John lifted her up and without preamble slammed her body onto his. This time she did cry out as he drove into her, filling her so suddenly her bones shook with the force of it. She wrapped her legs tight around him, desperate to hang on as he set the rhythm of their sex, bucking his hips against her and lifting her up and down so quickly, his hands clenching her waist, that she became dizzy with motion. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, all she could do was feel his hands on her skin, his breath on her cheek, and his manhood stretching her, taking her, completing her.

When he came he came hard, crashing into her, his hands squeezing her waist so roughly she winced in pain. He pulled her against him, his chest, her breasts, slick with sweat. They held each other close, gasping for breath, neither one speaking, both of them shivering in the cool, rose-scented air.

After a moment John pulled back and looked at her, brushing her sweat-laden locks from her face and placing his hands against her cheeks, locking his eyes with hers.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His presence, his body, his gift said it all.

12:45 a.m. Forty-five minutes after the start of a new day. The beginning of another decade of Helen Magnus' long and unnatural life.

She sat in John's lap breathing in the cool, night air. The beds of pink, yellow, white, and red roses surrounded her, lulling her to sleep with their quiet song.

She was loved. Deeply, madly, even tragically. But she was loved.

END


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